


don't follow me (you'll end up in my arms)

by celestial_txt



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/F, F/M, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26287873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestial_txt/pseuds/celestial_txt
Summary: A collection of snippets, drabbles and fills for the FFXIVwrite 2020 challenge. Check the index/chapter one for a brief summary on each piece.LMAO I stopped after two weeks when it stopped being fun doing prompts. Thank you for reading & commenting though it was a lot of fun bouncing these ideas around with you, my beloved readers!!!
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light, Zenos yae Galvus/Warrior of Light
Comments: 70
Kudos: 117
Collections: Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub FFXIV-Writes 2020 Collection





	1. index.

I am attempting the [FFXIV writes challenge](https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/#rules) this year, and will be gathering my pieces here. In the index below I keep a running track of what each piece contains. A lot of these are probable to become actual oneshots at one point or another, but nothing is set in stone. ~~(That said if you like something extra much, feel free to comment and inform me so! It always boosts my interest in finishing pieces.)~~

Each fill has a content warning up top when necessary.

**01.** Crux **//** **Zenos yae Galvus x f!WoL:** Zenos has come to ask for her hand in marriage.  
**02.** Sway **//** **Emet-Selch x f!WoL:** Viera going into heat & Emet is an asshole about it.  
**03.** Muster **//** **Solus zos Galvus x f!WoL:** An assassination attempt on the Emperor does not go as planned.  
**04.** Clinch // **Solus zos Galvus x f!WoL:** A Kushiel AU kind of thing. A chance encounter with a servant of Menphina leaves Emperor Solus doomed to repeat his mistakes. (Mild 5.3 spoilers.)  
**05.** Matter of fact // **Emet-Selch x f!WoL** : She's down to fuck him but only if he calls her daddy.  
**06.** Nonagenarian // **Lyna + Crystal Exarch** : Years later, Lyna muses on her former family and where that has left her. (Big 5.3 spoilers.)  
**07.** (free space, as of yet unclaimed)  
  
**08.** Clamor // **Solus zos Galvus x f!WoL:** Continuation of Kushiel AU. There are many ways to misuse the echo. **Explicit.**  
**09.** Lush // **Solus zos Galvus x f!WoL** : 3rd part of Kushiel AU, following the others. She tells him a story, and he shows her the truth. **Explicit.**  
**10.** Avail // **Zenos yae Galvus x f!WoL:** A wedding night to determine who is to rule. **Explicit.**  
**11.** Ultracrepidarian // **Solus zos Galvus x f!WoL:** Kushiel AU. A matter needs clarifying between the emperor and his favored courtesan.   
**12.** Tooth and nail // **G'raha Tia x f!WoL:** Naughty cats get the strap on the desk. **Explicit.**  
**13.** Free space, used the prompt _sex_. // **Solus zos Galvus x f!WoL:** A kept pet gets what she feels she deserves... In full view of an audience. **Explicit.**  
**14.** Part // **Solus zos Galvus x f!WoL:** You play a song for your Empress. **Explicit.**  
  
**15.** Ache // **Solus zos Galvus x f!WoL:** Let a good pet have some good times goddamn. **Explicit.**

Title from Joji's [Slow Dancing in the Dark](https://youtu.be/K3Qzzggn--s).


	2. 01. crux. zenos yae galvus x wol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: zenos

Zenos doesn’t let his gaze stray from her, the half-lidded icy eyes regarding her from the moment she enters the tent set up in the neutral zone, and it is a poor copy of the previous negotiation she held here with his father. He wears a white officer’s coat draped over his shoulders, and it strikes her that he has his handsome days, without the mask and armor.

“You wished to parlay?” Raubahn asks, tense and skeptical.

He shrugs. “I care not for any treaties my dead father offered you. They matter for nothing now.”

“He offered nothing we found worthy of consideration.”

Zenos blinks, slowly, looking bored already.

She has said nothing, silent and intent, watching him and waiting. The tension between them is stifling the air in the room.

He addresses her directly. “Marry me, my dearest friend.”

A stunned silence descends on the Alliance leaders. They look between him and her. Part of her wishes she was more surprised, but another part of her thinks, _ah, finally. He shows his truth_. She knows him better than she would like.

Zenos sighs, rolling his shoulders. “The offer expires when I leave this tent.”

“What kind of game is this?” Raubahn growls.

“No game. I have no interest in those. Only in her.” His words do little to ease the concerns of the leaders on either side of her.

So this is how it will be, she thinks. Fate comes for you and surprises you. But really, she has known ever since they cast the bones under the auspicious blood moon and divined her life’s purpose.

Oh, she has known him for a long time, known the shape of him in her life before she knew _him_. Darkness has a way of taking root long before it comes.

She thinks of the stories she heard, of maidens long ago who prepared for their wedding night by filing their teeth to sharp points, by weaving razor blades into their hair. These used to fill her with fear. Now, she understands them. Their stories fill her with resolve.

“What incentive do you have for me to say yes?” she says, tip of her tongue tracing the teeth in her mouth.

His eyes widen, just a little, the quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “I will not bring war to Eorzea. There is no hunt that interests me that is not you. As long as you live, your lands are safe.”

“And if she dies?” Kan-E-Senna asks.

“I would be a mourning widower.” He shrugs, but his eyes widen. She glimpse that hunger in him again. “Who knows then? Certainly not I.”

”I will only consummate the marriage when I hear you beg me for it. Earnestly."

The leaders at the table are shocked. They cannot understand why, but they also have no understanding of things such as destiny. He is hers. She has always been tied to this, the conquest of a beast, her entire body dedicated to the artform that looms in the distance.

Zenos shrugs. “You are daring."

“And if you try anything without me saying yes, I will leave. I will never fight you again, not because I am weak but because _I will find you unworthy_. No words, no acts after that will make me even look at you. You will be as dust and air to me.”

He looks at her, eyes narrowed. The crux of the matter is that he wants her and she is more than willing to file her teeth to sharp points and make him regret it.

She has loved him since she first saw him, in the only way you can love a terrible prophecy you have been bound to: wholeheartedly, foolishly, angrily.

“Do you understand me?” She gets up from her chair, walking around the table, breaking the rules. Seated as he is, she is face to face with him, and she cages him into the chair with her arms, her lips grazing his ear as she whispers to him. “Do you understand what I will do to you? I will desecrate you.”

He shudders. Oh, this fool. This terrible fool. She will break him. She will enjoy every moment of it. Oh yes, she will agree to this marriage, and she will follow him into the heart of his lair. And in one year, she will return home with him on a leash.

“You want a beast?” she whispers, her sharpened teeth sinking into his earlobe. “I am the only beast you will ever come to fear.”

“I would have no one else.” His voice is somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and she knows she will enjoy herself as long as she keeps him alive. He is her toy and she is ready to _devour_.


	3. 02. sway. emet-selch x wol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: heat, emet being a rat bastard

The timing of her heat is _impeccable_ , in the way that disasters always strike when she least needs them — especially right now, in the middle of carrying three lightwardens full of primordial light in her and with the burden of saving an entire world on her shoulders. No pressure! Absolutely none!

Viera heats happen every five years, give or take, the curse and blessing of a long life span. Blessing, because at least you get a lot of lovely years in-between where your brain isn’t a mess of urges and cravings. Curse, because when it hits it’s like going feral.

She keeps eyeing the Scions in the Oculus, fighting against herself. Terrible idea. Utterly terrible. She does not shit where she eats, she has standards, though give it a few more days and she knows she might snap hard enough to just pull down her pants and ask them all to take turns fucking her raw.

She is going to have to find a better solution, and soon.

When the meeting ends she has not heard a single thing they said, nodding along while adjusting the neckline of her dress lower. She does not have a clear idea for _how_ she will go about this heat, but she has great tits at least. Some issues can solve themselves.

“There is something different about you today, hero.” Emet-Selch peels himself off the wall, following after her as she descends the stairs down to the Crystarium. He sniffs the air. “A new perfume? I cannot quite place the scent.”

“What do you want?” she snarls. Her heat is screaming at her to fuck him, to shove him to the ground and straddle his cock and make him plead for her to ride him until he snaps in half. Which is a terrible idea, and she still has enough presence of mind to know as much. For now.

“Is it so terrible a thing to simply want to talk? Really, you have so little patience for the finer arts of conversation as of late, one could easily begin to wonder…”

His hand touches her hair and she moans, much to her own embarrassment. She whirls around, slamming him up against the wall and pinning his hands up by his head, and oh. This is a mistake. A big, big mistake. He smells so good. She has always been weak for scents, and he smells like a warm night, a hint of spice and something deeper, muskier.

She cannot help herself, she leans in and breathes in deep, exhaling a shaky sigh. Fuck. Fuck. He smells _perfect_.

“I thought as much,” he says, smiling smugly. “You are in heat, are you not?”

“Shut. Up.”

“You know that I am, in fact, an option. And you seem to be enjoying the thought of it.”

She glances down, and her thigh is between his legs, pressing upwards and oh. Oh. Is he. Yes. A little. _Oh._ She had not guessed that he was into getting pinned to the wall and roughed up, but…

No. Terrible, awful idea.

“Come now, would it be so bad to make a good choice in your life?”

“Nothing about you is a good choice.”

“Do you think your other options are better? You think any of them will be able to keep themselves hard for your sole pleasure, hour after hour?” His voice drops, his head leaning closer to hers as he notices that she is rolling the idea over in her mind. “Surely you have considered it. Having me under you, all yours to do with as you wish. The knowledge of pleasure I contain, after twelve thousand years, ripe for you to pluck from my willing lips. Or fingers, or…” He grins. “Well.”

She growls, letting go of him as she begins to undo the buttons of her dress. “Fine, let’s get it over with then.” She shrugs the shoulders down, her breasts falling out of the bodice, and hitches up her skirt.

He laughs, shaking his head. “Not that the idea isn’t exhilarating, especially with the risk of getting caught…”

His gloved knuckles graze one of her taut nipples, and she sways on her feet, clenching her teeth to keep from making too much noise of raw need, but still a moan escapes. He removes his hand, much to her annoyance, and he actually pulls her dress back up.

How can he be this horrid?

“If I intend to bed you, I want to do it correctly. And you have hardly worked your charms on me, dear hero. Treat me to a dinner, lest you hurt my feelings.”

She blinks. “Are you serious?”

“I mean what I say and I say what I mean. Yes, dinner. Unless you wish to try your luck with any other louts in the bars?”

“Fine. Fuck, fine, alright. Dinner it is.” She tugs her dress back together, covering herself up, her hands shaking with a mix of frustration and desire. She does not know what she wants to do more, jump him or punch him. Maybe she could do both at the same time.

“You’re paying, by the way.”

“You’re an Ascian! Can’t you just—“ She imitates his finger snap.

“My dear, that may be, but I am not heartless. Woo me.”

She is going to wring his neck when she’s done with him.


	4. 03. muster. solus zos galvus x wol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: spitting, emet being a horny rat bastard.

She has trained for this for decades, her sight fixed on the Emperor as the chaos spreads like wildfire through the crowd. The other dragon riders have their assignments to sow the seeds, to cover the area in smoke and panic and cause the Garleans to make mistakes. She has hers: find the newly coronated Emperor Solus zos Galvus and kill him.

How she has waited for this moment.

She is poised to dive, one hand holding onto the saddle as her dragon circles and circles, her sister already holding the reins. They have practiced this, they don’t even have to speak when they ride as a duo, their movements anticipating the others flawlessly.

There. Sunlight catches his crown, glimmering gold in the smoke, and she dives. Air rushes in her ears, adrenaline thrumming and slowing time as she lands in front of him. It draws his attention. Good. Look me in the eye as you answer for your crimes.

He is kind of beautiful in a way only horrible people are and she thinks he would be even more beautiful covered in his own blood.

His guards have not spotted her yet, and he has not alerted them — odd, but she will not complain. She makes quick work of them with her lance, quiet and precise, and then wheels around to strike his throat. Her lance glances off, as if hitting an impenetrable barrier, and she narrows her eyes.

“This is how you come back to me? At swordpoint?” he says, grabbing her lance and dragging her close to his face. She can _feel_ his breath flutter against her chin.

He is too close, and she doesn’t have control of this anymore — he should be dead, he should, she cannot —

“How cruel you can be to me, my love.”

She tries to pull her lance free of his grip, but it is like iron. He’s just meant to be human, he cannot be this strong, shouldn’t be.

Her mind reels. He should not have survived to this point, this was not in the plans. Unless he… The dragons have told them, time and time again, but she did not think she would ever stand face to face with an Ascian. He has to be. So the elder’s suspicions were right.

He grips her chin and his eyes are studying her, taking in her face, the snarl on her lips, the sweat trickling down her forehead. If he is this strong why hasn’t he crushed her, flicked her out of existence, why is she still alive?

She tries to wrench free, but she cannot muster up enough strength. Can she ever, when he is not mortal, he cannot be mortal and oh woods she has stumbled across a terrible secret, hasn’t she —

“Look at me, love.”

And why is he calling her _that_.

“Fuck you,” she hisses, spitting in his face.

His pupils dilate as her spit lands in his mouth, and he swallows, hard, followed by a soft moan. A heartbeat passes and then his lips crash against hers, hungry and needy.

It’s… Familiar. It terrifies her. It terrifies her that she responds, that it is like kissing an old lover she has not seen in years, but she does not recognize him, she doesn’t know him, he’s not even a quarter of her age.

She bites down on his tongue, hard enough to draw blood, but she keeps kissing him. He sighs into her mouth, a shivery and hungry noise, so unlike something she would expect to hear from an Emperor when someone is making an attempt at his life.

She has always known what to do in her life: how to navigate the village’s intricate politics, how to shine her dragon’s scales until they glow and he purrs in contentment, how to skewer two men in one go upon her lance when they stray too close to the forest.

This. She has no map for. Just raw feeling, a sensation that pierces through her core, that goes beyond who she is right now.

She could lose herself like this, she knows as much, but she is _loyal_ , and she wants him to _die._ When he melts into the kiss she wrenches the lance free and tries again, breaking away to try and cut through his chest. Instead her lance shatters in her hands.

This, at least, snaps her out of it. She falls back, whistling loud and clear, and she hears the change in the winds as her dragon begins his descent to pick her up.

Emperor Solus looks at her, a peculiar smile playing on his lips. “Strike truer next time, dear. Perhaps I will even let you.”


	5. 04. clinch. solus zos galvus x wol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **For context:** I read _Kushiel’s Dart_ by Jacqueline Carey again and had some feelings. This is kind of an AU inspired by that, but you do not need to have read it for context. To summarize the most important detail I lifted for use: sex work in _Kushiel's Dart_ is a kind of holy/divine work, elevated to a high position in society and revered in a country that heeds to the creed "love as thou wilt". I wanted to play with that idea and all of a sudden this popped into my head. So. A different take on what it means to serve Menphina. 
> 
> **Mild 5.3 spoilers.**
> 
> cw: sex work, garlemald, emperor solus zos galvus, emet being a sad little bastard

“Levying a ten percent tax will cause riots.”

“They have had benefits for so long it has made them complacent and lazy. We must all do our part for the betterment of the nation.”

“Some more than others.”

The officers snip at each other with snide remarks, and Emet-Selch grows tired. He closes his eyes, bored of this talk. Ruling an empire comes with so many irrelevant little details to attend to. Yes, the tax will cause unrest. Yes, the third legion will quell it, as they must, and the detractors will remember it until it grows into a big enough wound to cause more strife, more trouble. The years roll on and the smallest seed planted now will bear fruit decades down the line, if not centuries.

Everything he builds is built to destroy itself. One only has to practice a deft touch and find a way to while away the hours as chaos gestates in the lands.

With eyes closed, seeing people’s souls becomes easier. All of them malformed, weak and fractured — but — there is one soul that draws his gaze. A color all too familiar that he has not seen in centuries.

He could keep his eyes closed. He could ignore that she — a splinter of Azem — is here. He has done it before, when their paths have intersected, as a way of circumnavigating the certainty of tragedy that always tinges their meetings. There always comes a day where she opposes him. There always comes a day when he slips up, too hungry for her to care for his words and rampant memories.

And he is no better now. He watches her from across the room. He always choses this doom: to be drawn into her orbit and get burnt by her radiance. This time she is in the form of a Viera, tall and with a hard jawline, clad in a silken dress that clings to her body like a second skin yet shifts like water when she moves.

“Spotted the ambassador’s new plaything, I see,” one of the officers remark, following his gaze.

“Plaything?” Solus asks, disinterested in getting dragged into a conversation with them.

“She made quite a name for herself here in Kugane, from what I understand. A courtesan of some ancient tradition, with contracts and all.”

The officer to his right snorts, throwing back his drink. “Contracts? Street whores have evolved.”

“It is said the ambassador wasted a fortune on her services, even sold part of his sword collection for more.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Not so.” Claudius has been quiet until now, watching her back with a soft expression. “She is pricked by destiny, marked by the goddess Menphina. A red mote in her eye. Or so the legend goes. The things she does with pain and pleasure have clinched many a business deal as of late.” He blushes, dodging his head away.

“Pricked by a goddess.” Solus bites back a smile. How the truth becomes distorted in retellings, given to myths and legends. And still. There is a degree of it that he remembers.

“The nobles have made a game out of it here in Kugane. To see where her boundary lay, if she would utter the safe word.” The officer snaps his fingers, trying to recall it. “Hargrove, no, wait. Hadley. No! They call it _drawing out_ _Hades_. Apparently no one has managed it. She’s more likely to draw yours out twenty times before she even breaks a sweat.”

A collision between them has suddenly become inevitable.

He beckons a guard close. “The ambassador is needed for an urgent meeting at the office. Ensure he leaves for it posthaste.”

Slipping away from the officers as they make raunchy jokes is easy enough, and he follows the ambassador and her out into the garden, obscured by the shadows he has pulled to himself. He watches as the ambassador makes his excuses to her and hastily follows the guard. He watches as she smiles a bit wider at being left alone, and then how she relaxes, stretching out on the bench and pulling her knees up to rest her chin on.

This is it. He could turn away. He could leave her to live her life free of him, but he is terribly selfish. And she has always had him yearning, even when she cannot even remember his name.

His steps on the gravel path cause her long ears to twitch, and she turns to look at him. Her eyes take him in, brow furrowed, and she re-arranges her body to look more graceful and guarded.

“Have I met you before?” she asks, and oh, even her voice has a lingering tone of Azem’s, reduced as it is in power. “You feel awfully familiar.”

“This party is held in my honor,” he says, smirking. “May I?”

“Ah. The Emperor.”

She does not bow her head. She does not use the proper address. She does nothing to show him respect.

Just like old times.

He seats himself next to her, at a respectable distance. “I hear you are a servant of a goddess.”

“I believe the term your nation uses is false idols.” Though her words are sweet, there is a fire in her eyes, and ah, yes. He sees the red mote, floating in her dark brown eyes like a pinprick of blood webbing outwards.

“And yet you take contracts from us.”

“Even though your men may not honor my traditions, they pay well.” She shrugs. “Who am I to deny them the right to suffer at my hands if they wish to ruin themselves in the name of a goddess they call heresy?”

“Shrewd.” He leans closer, drawn in by her scent — a spice he cannot name, though he has sampled all known on this shard, underlined with a heady smoky note. “If one were to inquire about your availability, how would your schedule look?”

“I do not do work as a gift for others.”

“It would be with me.”

She raises an eyebrow. “The Emperor sullying himself with one such as me? How scandalous.”

“What can I say? I have particular tastes.”

“Mmm. So it would seem. I might have some time, granted one thing. I would ask for a kiss. I get bored easily. I want my time to well invested.” She flashes him a devious smile. “Consider it a —“

She has no time to finish the sentence before his lips covers hers, his hands gripping her shoulders. It has been so long, and he is starving. She grabs his chin, forcing his mouth open and claiming it, and he feels the dynamic of their kiss shift as she takes control of his need, as she makes him melt against her. There is little sweetness in the kiss, hard and about establishing order and rule, and he yields. He yields for her, as he always have, as he always will.

When she parts, a long string of saliva stretches between their lips until he swallows, licking it up.

She smiles wide enough to show her teeth, at that. “Good,” she purrs, wiping a bit of spit off his chin. “I can have time this weekend, if you are so inclined.”

“Very much so.” His voice is thick, and his mind already reeling with the possibilities of what she can do to him. Oh, to be in her presence is always such a rush of adrenaline, heady and toxic. He cannot resist the sheer _force_ of her existence, even broken down such as this into a mere shard of her former glory.

“Ah, and. I would like to discuss the signale before I have my scribe draft up a contract. Well, safe word would be a better translation for a Garlean, I guess. I will not sign the paper and enter service unless you, the client, give me your word to honor it. If I say it, it means I cannot take anymore. I need it to stop, and I need you to give me any care necessary to prevent permanent injury.”

“I am a civilized man.”

She smiles politely. “I have no doubt. Still, I would hear you say it.”

“I agree, of course.”

“Good. For the record, it is—“

“’ _Hades_ ’.”

She inclines her head. “I see my story precedes me.”

“It is an interesting word. Where does it come from?”

“Ah, it is just an old folk tale from my childhood.” She tries to sound breezy and light, but he knows a lie when he hears one. No matter. He will find the time to draw it out of her. What else does she remember, if she has enough of a memory to use his true name for such an intimate thing?

He is a man possessed by her mysteries, always.


	6. 05. matter of fact. emet-selch x wol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: "call me daddy", mentions of strap-on, implied impending pegging, but no outright fucking

It takes Emet-Selch a while to truly understand how sharp her eyes are, shrouded as she keeps herself in half-smiles and jokes, always surrounded by people who want something from her. She indulges them all in such tiresome ways, and he watches from afar. He never realized she was watching him back, right through the shadows. She is clever. He admires that about her.

But now, now it is just her and him at a table, a pot of tea between them. To be the sole receiver of her focused intensity makes his heart beat just a little bit faster.

“You keep coming back to me,” she says, supporting her chin in hand as she stirs a cube of sugar into her milky tea. “It is almost as if you want something.”

“I am naught but a silent observer of a foolish hero’s struggles,” he says, smirking.

“I think there is more to it than that.” She puts the spoon down on the saucer, lifting the cup to her lips. “As a matter of fact, I know there is. You want to fuck me.”

She says it with a straight face, her voice even — it doesn’t even _ruffle_ her to have the perceived villain of her tale lusting to spread her legs and leave her breathless.

He could laugh and shrug it off, mock her for making such a terrible joke ( _really, hero, what would your friends say at this scandalous statement?_ ) but he doesn’t. He purses his lips because he is annoyed that she saw through him so quick.

“Yes, yes, and what of it? It is not like you will act on it, so is it truly so terrible to have a man lust for you from a respectable distance?”

“It’s cute.” She sips at the tea, crossing her legs under the table. “But boring if you never make a move out of it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You never indicated an interest.”

“Oh, I am now. There is a caveat though.” She bares her teeth in a cruel and devious smile. “I’d fuck you. But only if you call me daddy.”

He laughs outright, crossing his arms over his chest. “My my. Is that what gets you hot and bothered? How positively filthy of you.”

He is very pointedly ignoring the pressure building between his legs, the warm slick drop at the tip of his cock. By her Twelve, he hates that she can put an idea into his head so easily and make him react so fast.

“No,” she says, sweetly. “I think you want me enough to be willing to do it. Or you could prove me wrong. I am patient, but tick tock, time is always running out. Daddy won’t be waiting forever for you.” She smiles, finishing the cup of tea and getting out of the chair.

“Leaving so soon? I thought I had you all afternoon.”

“I have an appointment.” She grabs him by the wrist, bringing his hand to her groin and _oh, fuck_. If he was hard before, it is now practically painful. She presses his fingers down on the hard bulge hidden under her clothing, the tell-tale firmness of a big strap-on waiting to be used. “Shame it’s not with you. Though I guess you will be watching now.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he snarls, snatching his hand back. He will definitely be watching and hating himself the entire time.


	7. 06. nonagenarian. lyna + crystal exarch, gen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: massive honking 5.3 spoilers, lyna's emotional traumas

To tell your story, you need to sidestep yourself because otherwise you get stuck on the pronouns on the page, annoyed at your own ego. It was never about you, and yet you sometimes wish it had been a bigger piece of the puzzle. Some days, you wish your part had been bigger, and it frustrates you that you aren’t better than this.

Such are the troubles of being you: Guard Captain Lyna.

They have asked you to tell your story many times now, but you never know if you want to. If you even can. Years have passed and you are a nonagenarian now, much like he was when he found you swaddled up in a basket with blood on your face, not even crying because even as a baby you knew that would attract sin eaters.

Before you knew how to speak you knew how to fear. At least you can thank him for that. He slowly unpicked it in you, to the best of his ability.

And they ask about all these things, all these memories and stories as if they have a right to it. _Who was he to you?_ Is there an easy answer? Is there any answer?

Years pass and only now can you take up a pen and write it down. The world has been safe for a long time but your mind hasn’t. If you think too hard on the crystal form of him on top of the tower, and all the times you have gone up there to touch his face, his hands, it breaks something wide open inside of you, an abyss of grief and anger.

He had to, you know it, everyone knows it. It doesn’t make it _easier_.

You knew so little and it keeps chipping at you even now.

It’s not so much that you asked him things directly — the press of secrets prevented you, you know this, but does that fix anything? The weight just shifts from one finger to the next.

One time you glimpsed his hood fall back when he fell asleep reading and you covered him up, feeling ashamed. His secrets were not yours to know but you know the shape of them in your life, these zones where you wish you could fill out the map. Where you wish you could understand him.

You never talked about your real parents because as far as you were both concerned, he was all you needed even when he would gently correct you with _grandfather_ instead of _father_ , wedging a bit of distance between you. All these things he did for you thinking you needed it. It still makes you mad.

But you both knew the grief of that space in-between you, you both knew and you made a point to honor them but everyone has so much grief and lost ones that you just never center your own until suddenly there is nothing _but_ grief.

All that is lost is a growing list in your mind even when you are meant to be joyous and happy.

He is gone, and you are alone, and you said you would be fine with it and thrive but a part of your heart left this world forever.

You grew up brusque and sometimes even mean because he was so soft, underneath it all, it horrified you how soft and caring he was. He wanted so many good things and you worried that people were not understanding how little he slept just to make sure everyone else was living well.

From the letters he sends, you realize he still is, but this is not the Exarch you knew. You do not know who he is anymore.

You have a grave and you have the letters that keep coming. He does not make it easy on you but you don’t want this to be easy on him either.

They say parents do this to everyone, and he is no different in that regard you guess. You wish he were. You wish he would reply faster to the one letter you send a year because you cannot bring yourself to answer them all, you can barely bring yourself to meet him.

He is so _young_. It feels like looking at someone you once knew but everything is a bit off and it makes the world reel. You still struggle with calling him G’raha, much less Raha. You tell him you are not close enough for that yet.

He knows you want to say _I don’t know if we will ever be, my lord._

Sometimes he laughs and it stops you in your tracks because he was so rarely that carefree before and it makes you happy, yes, but it devastates you too.

The world is so different from those days when you were a child but you were already taller than him at just thirteen, and how he struggled to brush the tangles out of your hair and asked if he could just braid it instead, or cut it short. You told him no, but never why — because all you could remember of your mother was a curtain of long white hair shielding you from the light.All of these memories, all of them yours, and it feels like committing a crime to put them to paper but you have to. You are tired of carrying this burden alone. You are tired of being beholden to memories of a man who no longer exists in a shape who you can recognize.


	8. 08. clamor. solus zos galvus x wol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Kushiel's Dart AU, continued almost directly from [clinch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26287873/chapters/64046230).
> 
> cw: sex work, emperor solus von nasty of garlemald, using the echo as a mind reading tool

The contract negotiation and signing itself is pure business, even as her scribe argues with Solus’ over the wording in each paragraph. She is patient, letting them squabble, more interested in just watching Solus himself. Her hands are folded under her chin, only speaking to offer gentle corrections to the details.

He keeps thinking about the kiss in the garden and how much he wants another one like it.

When they sign the papers, he pauses to look at her name, in the delicate penmanship of someone who has studied at academies far too long.

“An interesting name,” he notes, looking at her. “In Allag, it was considered ill luck.”

“I did not know the great emperor was such a scholar of Allagan culture.”

“We all have our niche interests.” He signs his name, and that is that.

The scribes take their leave and she stands up when it is just them left in the room. “So. I am yours for the weekend. Whatever will you have of me?”

He extends his hand, stroking her hair to the ends where he grabs it and winds it around his fist, pulling her close to his lips. She gasps at the tug, but she smiles nonetheless. “I would have many things of you,” he murmurs against her mouth. “But above all, I like to _watch_.”

* * *

The din and clamor of Kugane is muted on the top floor of the Garlean Embassy, and Solus has cleared out the entirety of it down to only the most basic staff and the usual guards. He will have her all to himself, in whichever room he wants. He is of half a mind to fuck her on top of the desk in the ambassador’s office and make her drip all over his documents, spread her scent so thick in the room that he knows exactly what happened there.

But all in due time.

First, he wants to get to _know_ her. He wants to _see_ her.

Her luggage has been brought into the guest room adjacent to his suite, and he waits for her as she prepares by selecting a wine and uncorking it to aerate.

When she emerges, she smells of freshly crushed flower petals and incense, clad in a sheer dress that leaves nothing to his imagination, held up only by the gold collar at her throat.

Her entire air is different, as if she has entered a different state of being. There is a gravitas to her movements, precise and delicate as she kneels at his feet, head bowed slightly and eyes downcast.

He never saw Azem like this. It stirs something in him.

Touching the back of her head, he trails his hand down her temple and cheek until he can tilt her up by her chin. He smiles. The defiance burns in her eyes. She plays her role well, but it is a role he dictates. If he wants her to be soft and pliable, she will be. If he wants her to hurt him, well, he saw a hint of what she keeps in her coffers and right now he sees the hunger in her eyes.

“Rise,” he demands, and offers her a glass of wine. They clink them together, and her lips move silently before she drinks down. “What was that? A prayer?”

“Yes.” She licks a stray drop from her lip and he feels himself grow hard at the glimpse of pink tongue darting out. He wants it on him so badly. “Though you may not care, my work is honoring my goddess.”

“Your false idol.”

“Say what you want. You call my gods false, yet you partake of their gifts.”

“I do not worship at their altars like a fool.” Perhaps he is intentionally riling her up, testing the waters of her. He wants to know the outline of this shard, who she is. What of her is Azem’s and what of her is uniquely _her_.

“Mmm. But you will whisper my name like a prayer when you come.” She bites her lower lip, smiling, pressing her hand against his chest. “That is honoring them too, whether you like it or not.”

She presses her lips to his, a daring move, but her reading of him is not off. He lets her control the kiss, and she goes as far as cupping his face, the tip of her tongue playing against his lips until she has him moaning. She shifts on her legs and the curve of her hip presses against his throbbing hard-on.

“Now then… What will you have of me?”

He takes her by the hand, guiding her onto the bed and leaving her alone there. She looks momentarily confused, sitting gingerly on the edge.

“As I said, I would watch you.” He pulls up a chair to the bed, so close that his knees are touching the mattress. “I want to see you spread your legs, touch yourself, and tell me of your fantasies.”

“As you wish.” She shifts up on the bed, leaning back against the plush mountain of pillows and arranging her body neatly, parting the fabric of her dress so that it pools to her sides.

He feels a familiar flicker at the back of his mind as she focuses her gaze on him, and he narrows his eyes. The Echo. Interesting, indeed.

She pretends as if she has done nothing, her finger skimming over her breasts, rolling her nipples until they are hard rosy peaks.

“You are a difficult man to read,” she says airily, her hands moving down over her stomach and between her thighs.

“Surprised your trick isn’t working?”

She freezes, looking at him with wide eyes. “You… You felt that?”

“Do you even know what it is? What power you command?”

“No one has ever named it for me.”

He leans forward, elbows on his thighs, fixing her with his eyes. “So you wield it without even knowing _why_ , in a way such as this. Does it serve you? Does it line your coffers with money? Misusing it like a child.” He does not spit out the last few words, but almost. He sure wants to.

“I do it to connect.”

He breathes in deep, waiting for her to continue.

She lies still on the bed, legs still spread, one hand resting on the soft curls at her mound. “And yes, it serves me, like words serve my mouth when I speak to you. I reach out through it to understand my clients. Do you know how rare it is to be able to verbalize what you want? To be able to reach past your own judgements and utter the words? Is it not a grace, then, that I can see it within them and give them what they want like this? To make them feel seen and understood?” Her cheeks are burning red as she glares at him, unrepentant.

He grabs her ankle, pulling her closer to him. “Continue, then. But I will hear from you what it is _you_ want instead.”

She is still indignant with rage, but she is also glistening between her legs, and the lips part easily under her fingers. Even like this, she makes it into an artistic performance, spreading herself so that he can see all of her, her fingers moving without obscuring, her lips parting with a pleased sigh as she dips into her core and they both hear the wet squelch.

“I want you to fill me up with your cock —“

“Lies.”

“I want to feel your mouth on my cunt, devouring me —“

“Lies,” he repeats again, grip tightening on her ankle even as he guides it towards the bulge in his pants, resting the arch of her foot against it.

“I want to hurt you for being such a piece of shit,” she snarls, and when she feels his cock twitch under her foot, she presses down on it hard. She is fast to seize upon even the slightest hint, like a hunter finding its prey and never hesitating. “I want to spit in your face and make you swallow it. I want to make you crawl on your hands and knees and crown me as your empress with your mouth. I want to desecrate your crown and make you beg my goddess for forgiveness.”

“Very good,” he says. He takes the hand she is using to touch herself and pulls her up by the wrist, pushing her slick fingers into his mouth and sucking them off.

“But you are still. Lying. To me. That is not your fantasy. That is mine.” He bites her fingers, lightly, but enough to leave red marks. “So tell me, truly, of the darkness that you dream of at night. Tell me of the dark wings that fold around your body, whose name you cry out as it wrenches pleasure from your frail body. Tell me of Hades.”


	9. 09. lush. solus zos galvus x wol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are still doing Kushiel's AU, huh. (We sure are.) Continuation from previous fill. 
> 
> cw: sex work, monsterfucking, cumplay, size kink, responsible use of safe word

The Garlean Embassy is an architectural treasure, at least in Solus’ eyes. He of course had a hand in designing it, wanting it to be built to his specific schematics. It will not do to have the outward face of his empire lack in anything which makes it destined for greatness and decay.

And as in everything he builds, there is a garden. How could there not be? Azem loved the garden he kept in Amaurot the most, often sleeping out there, waking up with blossom petals in her hair and grass stains on her robes.

Even with the foremost gardeners of the realm, however, the Kugane Embassy garden distinctly _lacks_ the same glorious lushness Azem would find her respite in. Glassed in to replicate the conditions of how gardens are kept in Garlemald proper, the humidity clings to every leaf and fogs up the walls with condensation.

Solus shows Menphina’s servant in, and her eyes widen at the sight, kicking off her shoes and sinking her toes into the grass.

“It feels like being home in the jungle,” she says, marvelling at the massive monsteras and philodendrons that bow over them. “It’s beautiful.” Her hands touch the fronds reverently and carefully, even pressing a kiss to one of the variegated ones.

He follows behind her, close but not touching, watching the sweat pearl on her back and dripping down along the open back of her loose dress and disappearing below the fabric’s cut.

“Now,” he says, brushing a stray lock of hair from her neck, “I do believe I am owed this story of Hades.”

She looks over her shoulder at him, eyeing him. There is a calculation running in the back of her mind, he can tell — how much is she willing to give away? Does she worry what it will reveal about herself? He wishes, desperately, that he could reach past the roles they are both playing in this life and touch upon the core of her with his soul. To remind her of how freely they once shared these things.

“It’s an old tale,” she begins, words measured, and he listens closely to try and figure out the hooks of the omissions. “Back when the woods were wilder, and filled with more vicious spirits, there was one feared more than all others. A dark, demonic entity that moved in the shadows at night, seizing careless hunters and dragging them off into the depths.”

He bites back a smile. He remembers that time well, albeit vastly differently. He wasn’t quite such a beast then, and he was only waiting for one hunter with a red mote in her eye.

How long has it been since? Two millennia? Three? Time truly is the horrific beast.

“It kept snapping up hunters from villages all throughout the forest, until one day a stubborn hunter decided to track it down and slay it. She set out with only a bow, a pair of daggers, and a quiver full of arrows, and spent many nights stalking the shadows and listening to the wind rustling the leaves.”

She did. He observed her as she watched the ground for him, not yet able to see where he sat perched above her. At least he thought so then — only her damned viera ears had been listening to his heartbeat all along.

When he finally pounced on her, well. She had had so many questions about why his pulse quickened when the wind changed and carried her scent to him. And he had so, so many teeth.

“For three nights she tracked it. For three nights, it evaded her. And then, as the wind changed, she caught its scent and descended upon with all she had. She exhausted all her arrows, sunk her blades into its back, and dug her fingers into its flanks until it bled over her hands.”

She did. Only that happened far, far later. As their horrific orbit around each other usually went.

“And as its blood spilled out onto the ground, it collapsed — and out of its body rose a man who called himself a god of the Underworld. He claimed he had been cursed by his long lost love, and thanked her for freeing him.” She eyes him, leaning back against the trunk of a tree, the velvet ivy vines spilling over her shoulders and framing her face. “That is where the story ends when told in most villages.”

“A thankless god.”

She shakes her head. “No, of course not. As usual, he showers her with praise, gives her some deal, some cursed promise he breaks on a whim. That, however, is not the story we tell in my village. She was from there, so we knew the truth.”

 _Not quite_ , he wants to add, but he holds his tongue, moving closer to her, caging her in against the tree with his arms as he leans over her. _Even you don’t know the whole of it._

She draws in a soft breath, tongue darting out to wet her lower lip unconsciously. “In my village, we tell the story like this: he took her. He fucked her. She loved him from the first moment she sunk her dagger into his back, and he loved her from the first taste of his own blood on her hands. His name was Hades, and in his greed to possess her, he took her with him to his Underworld of the dead. But she was mortal, and it was not to last.”

It was not. It never is.

He brushes his lips against hers, smirking. “An interesting tale. But it does little to explain why you chose that as your safe word.”

She licks his lips, pushing her tongue into his mouth, softly moving against his until she elicits a soft and needy sigh from him. It is damnable how good she is at her art, and how she uses it with such precision to almost manage to wipe the question from his mind.

He will not be fooled that easily.

He nips at her tongue, then her lips, catching her chin between his fingers. “Please,” he says sweetly even as he smiles with his teeth, “do fill me in on that particular detail.”

“You are persistent.”

“I am not emperor for nothing.”

She snorts, eyes sparkling with an intense fire. “That may be, but you are not my emperor.”

“Yet.”

She snaps her teeth at him, a wicked smile on her lips, and then she softens a little, the eyelids lowering as she looks at him through her lashes. “I chose Hades because for years, it is the only thing I dream of. I am the hunter, and I yield to him because I want him, and he tells me how long he has waited for me as he fucks me until the forest grows over us and we turn to stone in each other’s arms. It makes me feel safe. It grounds me. It reminds me of who I am.”

He suppresses a shiver of raw need. Oh, she truly is of the line of Azem. How he has waited for this moment to come back to him.

“I chose it because all I want, all I feel love for, is that monster-god. Does that satisfy you, _your radiance_?”

“It does,” he murmurs, scraping his teeth along her jaw, leaving bite marks in his wake. “Would you indulge me some more?”

“Is that not what you have contracted me for? A weekend of your pleasures satisfied.”

“I think this one will end up satisfying you.”

She arches her eyebrows, curious.

He undoes the red scarf at his neck. “Let me tie this over your eyes. I will not bind any other part of you, not this time. But I ask that you do not remove it until I say so, even were you to use the safe word. I will honor it, but honor this request. Please,” he adds, softly.

“I promise,” she says, tilting her head forward slightly as he puts it in place, tying it at the back of her head. He adjusts it, making sure it covers tight enough over the eyes, and then steps back.

It has been some time since he last assumed his true form, but it is always as easy as just shrugging off a regretted memory: immensely relieving and freeing. The sunlight is blotted out as the shadows unfurl from him, and he takes care to not break the glass as he looms over her.

Her ears are twitching, her breath quickening, and he can sense the change in her too: her aether is reaching out towards his, an ancient memory surging to the surface.

And then he descends upon her, having kept his hunger in check for long enough.

She welcomes him with open arms, trembling, but whispering _yes yes yes_ against his mouth even as she cuts her lips on his teeth and he laps the blood droplets up.

How he has ached.

He presses her to the floor, and she lets him. He slashes her dress to pieces in his claws, and she arches up to meet his hands, moaning as he brushes against her taut nipples. She spreads herself for him without hesitation, her thighs wet with arousal, and he laps at her skin with his prehensile tongue.

“Is this what you dreamt of?” His voice is distorted, far different from how he speaks in his human vessel’s form. “Is this the monster you yearned for?”

“Yes,” she gasps, clinging to his head as his tongue slides against her slit, bucking against his mouth. He slips his tongue inside of her, delving deep, and she desperately rubs at herself for a few seconds before she comes with a scream.

Her inner walls tighten against his tongue, but he keeps moving it, curling it inside her until she is writhing and moaning underneath him.

“More,” she whines, and who is he to deny her? He never could with Azem. He cannot deny her like this either.

The shadows part and he pulls her towards himself, holding her up in his hands.

She gasps when she feels his cock between her thighs, and the shudder that passes through her gives him pause. She is frozen, and he knows this moment, what must be passing through her mind — she could use her safe word and it would end, but she would never know. It would let her go back to a life where myths were just myths and stories remained stories, safe and secure. He would let her. He would try.

But instead she chooses the other. She chooses to _know_.

Her hands close around the tip of his cock, and she leans in, spitting at the head and then begins licking until pre wells up. She moans even as it dribbles down her chin, lapping up another mouthful as her hands spread it over his cock as far as she can reach.

Then she begins nudging it down while raising her hips, and he adjusts her, tilting her back in his hands as he presses the tip to her slit.

She does the sign of Menphina across her chest, and he snarls, snapping his teeth at her hands. “Wrong god,” he says. “She will not protect you here.”

“Fuck you,” she whimpers, even as she guides him into her and groans as he just about manages to enter her.

They both still then, him tampering down on his instinct to bury himself deep in her. Her body adjusts, slowly, minute by minute, as she works her fingers against her clit and his tongue presses into her mouth. And then she wriggles her hips, taking him just another ilm deeper, and her shock at coming is palpable.

“Hades!” she cries out, and it is too much for him, hearing his name spill from her lips. He pulls out as the orgasm ripples through him, the shadows around him lashing out wildly — his entire soul is rising to answer her call and finding the response so small and fragile.

He lowers her onto the grass, taking care with her as he looms over her, shielding her from the darkness he reigns over and tugs back into himself. It takes him a minute to gather his senses, to shift the body back into what it should be: human, mortal, black hair with a white streak, golden eyes.

As he is still piecing himself together into a man, he looks up. Every single plant and flower in the greenhouse has shifted to its autumnal colors, leaves browning and withering as vines sag towards the ground and petals rain down over them.

He removes her blindfold, and she gazes up at him with wet eyes, touching his face as if she has never known him before.

“What are you?” she asks, wondrous but not fearful. Between her legs, she is dripping his cum onto the earth, far too large an amount for anything a single man could produce, and he touches the pool gathering beneath her, covering his fingers in it.

“There are many who would claim godhood in this world,” he says, pushing his cum-covered fingers into her mouth and she sucks at them eagerly. “Many of them are _me_.”


	10. 10. avail. zenos yae galvus x wol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: zenos, a bit of blood and injury (but still way less than you'd normally expect from this motherfucker), soft threats of violence (no you cannot bite a finger off like a carrot but lying to that man is satisfying cus he's dumbhorny)

_Whoever draws first blood is to rule_ is a strange wedding vow to make, but it is one that she has thought of a long time. She intends to rule. She will have it no other way.

Zenos trails behind her to their bedchamber, their first night as marrieds hanging heavy with promise and bloodlust in the air. Her teeth are sharp and her horns adorned, and her dress has many sharp things sewn into it. One careless touch and his blood will drip onto her white dress, stain it, and she will be crowned ruler.

Not many of the Scions attended the wedding. She expected as much when they tried to argue, tried to talk her out of it, and all she asked was, _what will you say at my funeral?_ They never could understand something such as this, destiny beyond fate, a thread that binds dark to dark.

She holds the door open for him and she is the one to lock them in.

“I always knew you would say yes.” His voice is deep, husky, and he grabs at her hair to pull her back to him.

A hot trickle of blood drips down her open back, and she laughs, wild and feral. She wins. He is a fool, and the maidens of the past have taught her many things, above all to braid razor blades into her hair for the wedding night.

She wrenches herself free, grabbing his hand and holding it up. A deep cut lines the palm of his hand, and she maintains eye contact as she licks a long, slow stripe over the cut.

“It would seem you have won tonight,” he says, but he sounds almost proud. He chose her, and she has marked him — the first of many marks she intends to leave on his body. Perhaps, if he is good, she will let him leave _one_ on her. No more, lest he gets ideas of who holds the reins.

“Seem? I have all the evidence I need.” She presses down on his hand and another surge of blood gushes forth. Her tongue laps it up and she raises her mouth up towards his.

He catches on quick — good boy, she will have to remember to reward that part of him — and cups her face, pressing his tongue into her mouth to share in the taste of his own blood. He moans against her, moans when her sharpened teeth drag across his tongue, moans when she bites into his lip.

His greed stoked, Zenos grabs onto the collar of her dress and _rips_. Pearls and adornments fly all over the floor, and he keeps tearing at the fabric like a feral beast until she stands in only her underwear and heels. She allows him that much, enjoying the hunger in his eyes, because she will not spare him for this.

His neck is so exposed, a long pale column that reminds her of winter. She sinks her clawed talons into the flesh there, dangerously close to his jugular, and wrenches him down onto his knees.

“Will you beg me tonight, husband?” she asks, holding him there. She could end him if she wanted to. But not yet. She wants to have fun. And she really, really wants to hear him _beg_.

“No.”

“Shame.” She puts her sharp heel between his legs and presses down, laughing at his pained gasp and how ridiculously _hard_ he is under her foot. “I could have given you all of myself if only you had begged. Now…” She presses down harder, and he breathes harder, his blood-stained lips trembling.

His hands encircle her ankle, pressing her down harder, and he thrusts up into the pain she is gifting him.

Oh, he will be such a delight to break.

She moves one hand up to his lips, pushing three fingers into his mouth and all the way to the back of his throat, making him gag and drool around the digits even as she grinds her heel down. His eyes flutter shut and he comes with a loud groan, trying to cling to her even as she shrugs his hands off.

“I really wish you had begged,” she says, leaving him a mess on the floor as she moves over to the bed, availing herself of the opportunity to study his messy self while pouring up the whiskey set out on the nightstand. “We could have had so much _fun_ tonight, together. Do you know how much pressure it takes to bite off someone’s finger?”

He shakes his head, eyes hazy, chest still rising and falling.

“No more than what we need to bite through a raw carrot.” She snaps her teeth, laughing.

He shudders, coming again.


	11. 11. ultracrepidarian. solus zos galvus x wol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well well well. Kushiel’s AU, but a few years ahead in the timeline from the other snippets. In the main trilogy, the protagonist is a courtesan, yes, but also a trained spy. And the god she is pricked by is the god of justice. We love the range. We respect the range. Solus? Maybe.
> 
> cw: sex work, implied poisoning and torture (nothing comes of it, it’s just briefly mentioned), dom/sub undertones

“Next one,” she says, combing through her long hair.

“You won’t like this one either,” Solus says, pen poised over the crossword puzzle, watching her face in the mirror. “‘Expressing opinions on matters outside the scope of one’s expertise’, sixteen letters. Starts with ‘u’.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Why do you always get me the worst ones?”

“You complained you wanted a challenge last time.” They have been meeting a lot over the last year: practically every other weekend he lays claim to her time, and every weekend he resists the urge to beg her to stay. They have even grown habits together — as she bathes in the evening, he joins her in the bathroom with a crossword puzzle, reading it aloud for her as she works through it. She claims it calms her down, and her hands are busy with brushing the tangles out of her hair that he causes.

He also know a telltale sign of a spy when he sees one. A simple way to hide codes. But she is getting less and less discrete about it. Some mornings she wakes him up with her faraway distant stare as her fingers drum a specific rhythm against his back, memorizing a disharmonious beat.

Another detail he has noticed is how all the small concoctions and jars for her skin keeps changing, but there is always one vial she brings along that stays the same. He has also never seen her open it, her hands avoiding it no matter if she is working through her morning or evening routine.

A lesser man might not have noticed. He, however, has been an emperor for an accumulated thousand years.

He watches her over the rim of his reading glasses, her gaze falling on the particular vial as she worries the inside of her cheek. It is just a brief moment, but ah. He knows.

“What poison do you favor, then?” He folds up the puzzle and rises from his seat, moving over to lean on the back of her chair. “Aconite? Kudu? Nightshade?”

She remains relaxed, not a single flicker of tension or concern across her features. “I am not following you.”

He reaches over to the shelf and picks up the delicate vial, dangling it in front of her face as he rests his chin on her shoulder. “If I were to remove the stopper and sniff this, which one would I smell?” His teeth nip at her earlobe. “I would be disappointed in you, but I guess it is admirable that you have done nothing with it _yet_ , considering the many opportunities given to you.”

She turns her head so that they are face to face, her eyes regarding him coolly. “I was doomed from the moment you first laid eyes on me, back when in Kugane. Your enemies saw.”

“There is no price they pay you I cannot match. Or is it about the thrill?”

Her eyes are like fire for a brief moment, ancient and terrifying and achingly beautiful. “It is about justice.”

He laughs, softly. Of course. It is always, always about justice with Azem, and her damnable internal moral compass that guides her. So often since the sundering, it has guided her on a war path against _him_.

“Watch, my dear.” He crushes the vial in his hands, the glass shards turning to dust as he manipulates the very aetheric essence that makes up what it is. All comes from dust, all returns to it. “You know very well that I am no ordinary man. Did you think this would help?”

“It was never meant for you.”

Ah. Now that, that he could admire. Strategic, albeit foolish. And terribly wasteful.

“I would hate to give you reason to use it.”

“You never have.”

“Until now?” he inquires, an eyebrow raised.

“Depends.” She licks her lips, but there is no fear in her, only defiance. “What do you think?”

His lips brush against hers, teeth just grazing the full curve of the bottom one. “I think you should tell me what information you are relaying. Perhaps I can offer you something better.” He bites her lower lip, leading into a slow kiss, before he pulls back and returns to his seat.

She looks at him through the mirror, but it is a new way of watching. An understanding, however silent. A mutual assent of yielding.

“The word, by the way,” he says, filling out the crossword puzzle solution for her, “is ‘ultracrepidarian’.”

“That is a ridiculous word. It can’t be real.”

“Out of all the things you have experienced with me, _that_ is what belies your belief in reality?”

She snorts, twisting around in the chair. “So that is it, then? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“You won’t have me interrogated and tortured?”

Such a waste that would be. He touches her shoulder, fingers skimming across her bare freckled skin, tell-tale signs of how she spends more time in the sun than the cold winter climate of Garlemald.

“Not in the way you fear, no. Though I would very much like to have you on your hands and knees tonight.” He tugs at her hair, hard, causing her to gasp as he wrenches her up out of the chair. “I fear I may be rough following these revelations.”

A shudder of barely contained pleasure passes through her. “As you will it.”

“The proper address is ‘your radiance’.”

A mischievous and relieved smile passes across her features, sliding back into their usual roles as if nothing had changed between them. Indeed, it hardly has — just a matter clarified.

She spits in his face, ever yearning to be defiant, to snap back at him when he tries to draw submission from her. His free hand wipes up the saliva, smearing it across her own face, ruining the subtle make-up of her cheeks. He will make a mess of her tonight, and she will enjoy it. She always does.


	12. 12. tooth and nail. g'raha tia x wol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very raw look at my process and is how I write like 99% of my content: two-three scenes that appear vividly in my head and that I put on the page, and then fill out in other directions to make it, you know, functional. I'd apologize for it being disjointed but pbbbbbbt I'm tired it's been a long week. 
> 
> Also I didn’t want to write emotionally charged dialogue today what are you going to do, sue me, bitch I think tf not.
> 
> cw: emotional constipation, magical strap-ons, size kink, deskfucking

She has a way of simply walking in wherever she wants to be, and lately, that has been in his rooms in the Crystal Tower.

Part of G’raha Tia wishes he minded it more. She keeps coming in to pick through his secrets. After all she has been through, it is her right, they both agreed on it, but under her gaze he feels like he is being pulled apart at the seams. She has always been sharp like a sword but now that is aimed at him — and he is not sure what exactly she wants of him.

He gives her every answer she asks for, but she is never satisfied, and soon enough he will hear her heels against the floor again, her long strides echoing in the chambers.

And here she is again, back for more.

She sits on his desk, legs crossed, a bottle from his vintage collection uncorked but barely touched next to her. She is dressed beautifully, a long dress wrapped around her limbs, but the red doesn’t match his. Her black doesn’t match his. Her gold adornments are a different sheen than his. No doubt all intentional.

And as always, she looks like she either wants to shove him up against the wall or sink her teeth into his neck. He would not mind both, at once, and he worries that she can tell just how much he’d like that — her looming over him and her hands roughing him up like it’s some kind of justice and — _no._ Not now. Not ever. He could never ask that of her.

“Hello kitten,” she says, pushing out his chair with her foot. “I think it is about time we had a little talk.”

**[...]**

“Do you want me, G’raha?”

“I would not presume to —“

She gives him such a withering look that he falls silent, flattening his ears back, and then breathes in deep and tries again.

“It would be ill-advised to lie to you, considering all you have gone through for this Star. You fought tooth and nail for a place that you owed nothing to. You suffered, and I, in my foolishness, contributed to that thinking it was helping you.”

“Still angry about it, for the record,” she says, picking at her nails. She tries to make it look casual, keeping the edge in her voice, but she always does this little gesture when she is trying to hide her true emotions.

“And I will apologize for it until the end of my time with you.”

“That’s all nice and sweet, but it doesn’t answer my question.”

“The answer is yes. Always yes. But I —“

She growls, fisting his robe and pulling him close. “Stop trying to make excuses.” She touches her lips to his, testing, and when he responds with a soft whine it becomes a furious kiss, all teeth and raw need.

**[...]**

The folds of her dress part and he swallows as he can see the black leather harness she is wearing. He knows exactly what it is, but he — oh, he never _thought she might_ — he never read this about her. He never knew this about her, and it thrills him that despite it all she can surprise him.

She puts her fingertip at the center of the o-ring on her pubic bone, and with a bit of magick it grows, changing shape and color as she rotates between them until she finds one she is happy with.

“How big do you want it?”

“I, ah, whatever you find to be comfortable shall more than suffice.”

She sighs, settling on an icy blue color of the dildo the same shade as his crystal spread. “What I find comfortable is you telling me: bigger or smaller.”

He swallows his shameful hunger. “Bigger.”

She increases the size of it, and looks at him.

“Bigger,” he says.

She smiles, showing her teeth. “I like this side of you,” she says, and oh, the way her voice drops into a low purr as she makes it grow yet again has him feeling feverish.

it emboldens him, and before she can even pause he says it again. “Bigger. _Please_.”

This time, she laughs, but she does as he asks. When she finishes this time, he simply nods, swallowing. “That’s good. Thank you.”

“You’re a brave one.”

“Yes, well…” He blushes and swallows hard, but he cannot deny how eager he is to feel it within him.

She quirks an eyebrow at him. “Well? Are you just going to stare, or are you going to get my cock wet?”

The way she says cock makes him shudder and moan, even as he bows his head and licks the tip of it.

She strokes his hair out of his face, head tilted and eyes heavy-lidded as she watches him bob his head and hollow his cheeks.

**[...]**

He bends over the desk, doing as told, and he moans when she pushes up his robe, bunching it around his waist.

“How good and willing of you,” she says, and the relief at having his tail freed has him gasping. She pulls down his smalls and then runs her fingers along the back of his legs all the way back up to his ass, a touch that has him squirming in the best way possible.

Her fingers probe at him, testing him, and then the cool drizzle of oil has him bucking back against her. He is panting by the time she adds a second finger, whimpering at the third, and when her hands leave him he clenches his fists to keep from crying out.

She presses the tip of her dildo to his entrance, one hand at the small of his back, and then she does _nothing_ and he looks back over his shoulder at her.

“G’raha,” she says, his name so painfully soft on her lips, “if it hurts, tell me.”

“I must admit,” he says, trying to slow his breathing but his need to have her inside of him is getting the better of his control, “I’m quite fond of a little hurt, myself.”

She drags her fingernails down the back of his thigh and he gasps. “I like that about you. I’m of the same mind.”

She presses into him, and he keens, scrabbling for purchase on the smooth surface of his desk and knocking everything loose off. He pushes back against her as much as he can, wanting to take more and more, wanting her flush against him, and he aches with how good and tight it makes him feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I will edit this into a proper oneshot. Hopefully. He deserves to get rawed by a thick strap.


	13. 13. sex. solus zos galvus x wol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's **Empress** Emet time. Or well, technically Empress Solus. Either way, have some Emet saying fuck you to gender and using she/her pronouns. 
> 
> cw: exhibitionism, very mild petplay

She has been busy all day and the chain between your legs has you aching. If you are breaking any rules, then so be it, she can punish you later, but you have waited enough. It is not fair that she gets you all worked up and then strings a chain between your legs you cannot even unlock. Moving makes you drip and moan but you need her to do something to you, _soon_. 

The lock gives easily with a bit of magick, and you slip inside the office. The desk is cluttered with stacks of documents and books, and your nostrils flare as a ridiculous annoyance swells in you. These things _don’t matter_ , you do. You push them all down, and hop up on it instead. She should have you on this desk.

You hope she will. 

The main door opens and you perk up, the body chains straining between your breasts as you straighten your back. She knows exactly what she did when she put these on you and you gasp at the slight tug at your nipples.

It makes her laugh to see you like this, and she clicks her tongue at the mess you’ve made of her desk. “Darling, whatever shall I do with you when you are like this?”

She takes off the crown, placing it on a pedestal, and approaches the desk. She circles it, eyeing you, dragging one gloved finger along the base of your spine, the leather surface of it making your breath shudder. 

“You can’t just leave me like this for hours!” The whine in your voice is so high and needy and pathetic, but you don’t care. You are dripping onto her expensive desk and you will ruin everything in this room if she doesn’t ruin _you_ , and soon. 

“I can, pet. And I will, whenever I want to, because…” She abruptly plunges two gloved fingers into you, meeting no resistance, her other hand tugging at the chains connected to your nipple piercings. “Look at the state of you. A filthy, messy wreck. Just how I like it.” 

You grind yourself against her hand, needing _more friction more fingers more touching_ , and she is so cruel when she pulls her hand away that you let out a broken sob. 

She laughs at you, the hand wet with your slick stroking your cheek. “My dinner will be late, but perhaps I can indulge in an appetizer tonight.”

She pushes you down onto the desk, your back flush against the cool surface, and sitting down on the chair she pulls you forward until your ass is just at the edge. She spreads your legs, guiding you by the ankles to put your feet on the armrests. Normally, you would feel exposed like this, but right now you need her to see exactly the state she has left you in too long, and you need her to do something about it. 

Her fingers dance along the inside of your thighs, drawing circles upwards. You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching her, whine catching in your throat as she brushes against the chain that lays flush against your aching clit. 

“Perhaps I have been a bit remiss in my handling of you today,” she says, the back of her hand stroking along your sex and you keen. 

“You have,” you whimper. “I have been so good and you just leave me.”

“It does not do to keep you wanting.” She plants a kiss on the inside of your thigh, and then another and another, her finger hooking under the chain and pushing it to the side before her lips touch against your clit. 

You throw your head back, moaning, the noises spilling from you getting louder and needier as she closes her lips around your node and sucks. Your breath is coming in short bursts as you writhe on the desk, seeking more more _more_ of that delicious feeling. 

There’s a knock at the door and she licks a long stripe along your slit before raising her head enough to call out for them to enter. Three of her fingers push into you, and you keen as she thrusts them in and out, curving them, blushing as the guards open the doors and no doubt see you sprawled across the desk _and you do not care, at all_ , because she is inside of you and it is heaven. 

The steward pauses on the threshold, and your eyes meet. You blush, you know his face, you know you will see it around every day if you stay (how can you not stay now, you think hazily, you have to stay and feel this glorious every day) and yet all you do is moan as she fingers you deeper and harder, her gloved hand such a particular sensation. 

“Put it down over there,” she commands, her voice every bit an empress. You are on full display as he arranges the dishes, the obscene noise of your wetness echoing in the room as you buck against her hand. 

You wonder, distantly, if he thinks you are beautiful. 

You know you are now, because she has adorned you, pierced your nipples and made you heal them instantly, strung golden chains all across your body. You are a treasure in her hands, the pearls dangling from the chains like droplets alone worth more than the tuition you paid to attend Sharlayan. In just a week, she has spoilt you rotten, and you are loving every bit of the attention. 

“Red wine or white, your radiance?”

“Red, I think.”

She is so unaffected by what she is doing to you, discussing which vintage she wants even as she wrenches moan after moan from your mouth. The door to the corridor is still open, the guards are still watching, and you lick your lips as your head lolls back. You want them to see how kept you are, even as it makes you embarrassed. You are all hers, put on display, and you clench around her fingers. 

The steward offers her a sample of the wine, and she swirls it in the glass, sniffing deep, then looks at you. “Sit up, pet. I would have your opinion on this, if it is to your satisfaction.”

Her fingers stay inside you, even curving harder as you push yourself up on shaky arms. Sweat drips down between your breasts, breath trembling as she drinks up the mouthful of wine and presses her mouth to yours. The meeting is messy as she kisses the wine into your mouth, drops spilling out the side and trickling down your chin and chest, but the taste… Ah. Your sommelier skills are not up to any professional standard, but you can pick out the notes of berries and oak, a delicious mix. 

“Good?” she asks as she parts from your lips. 

You nod, too overwhelmed to form words, the frisson of a cresting orgasm beginning between your legs. 

“Very well. If you like it.” As the steward turns around to pour two glasses at the table, she leans in close, teeth grazing your neck as she whispers into your ear. “I want you to come, and I want you to scream. I want them to hear what I do to you.”

Her thumb swipes across your clit and you come undone, screaming her name, screaming her titles and _your majesty please more_ and falling back onto the desk, writhing and sobbing as she keeps pushing you for one more, coaxing it out of you. 

“Again, pet,” she says, and you obey because you are a good pet and you meet the steward’s eyes and you cannot tell if he is jealous or disgusted but what does it matter because the empress is making _you_ come, making them see who it is she favors: you. 


	14. 14. part. solus zos galvus x wol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. I just really like Empress Solus. Giving me the serotonin boost my greedy little head needed. Either way, have some Emet saying fuck you to gender and using she/her pronouns. 
> 
> For [ladyiceheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyiceheart/pseuds/ladyiceheart); without you letting me pick your brain apart to get to the bottom of what makes royalty and kept pet kink fun this would never have existed. Soon this will all coalesce into an actual longfic... 
> 
> cw: fingering, emotions, empress solus (cw for the fact that all my memories of harp playing are from 12+ years ago and _i never learnt the terms in english but this is just a chill prompt challenge so we aren't going to look to deep into it_ OK okay okay love you)

You circle the harp, testing the tension on the strings with your thumb.

“Do you play?” Solus asks, wine glass cupped in her hand as she follows after you. 

“I used to.” You close your eyes, plucking again, the way the strings vibrate catching in something old and soft inside of you. All these things you pushed away as you tried to be taken seriously at the academy, and all of them have been missed — this most of all. The sheer joy of music. 

When you open your eyes she is regarding you with a tilted head, an expression on her face that is so soft and reminiscent. “Would you play something for me?”

“I… It’s been a while. I may be a bit rusty.” 

She seats herself on the wide stool behind the soundbox, spreading her legs and patting the space between her thighs. “Do your best. I am sure I will enjoy it nonetheless.”

You sit down between her legs, trying to only inhabit the edge of the seat but she pulls you two flush together, and oh, she is so warm, you can feel the heat radiating from her against your bare back. Swallowing, you push down how distracting it is to have her breathing against your neck and bring the harp down onto your shoulder, the weight familiar and comforting. 

There are many tunes that flit through your mind, but your thoughts snag on one in particular, one you used to play over and over until it became perfection in your hands. So you begin, vaguely registering the sharp inhale of breath from the Empress as you pluck on the strings. She puts down the glass on the floor, the clink not breaking your concentration, but her hands moving up your thighs and pushing the slits of your dress apart is. 

Your fingers miss, the false note ringing out in discord against the tune, and she _knows_ , somehow, her nails scraping against your skin. “Stay focused,” she says, her voice close to a growl as she nips your neck.

“You are not making that easy for me.”

“Is that so?” Her fingers dip between your thighs. “I am merely paying my favorite artist back for what her fingers are conjuring in me. Is that so wrong, pet?”

You want to bite back, but your tongue is so heavy in your mouth, moans threatening to spill out if you part your lips, that you reroute all your focus to the strings. These movements are ingrained into your deepest memories: you learned to play the harp before you learned to read. It is a homecoming, to be here. To be playing again. 

She is reminding you of so many forgotten things.

An eerie realization dawns on you: her fingertips on the inside of your thigh are matching the song you are playing exactly. It causes you to lose track again, filled with a surge of questions, and she sinks her teeth into your shoulder. The pain sets off a chain of signals, heat pooling in your core and a moan to fall out from your lips. It hurts, her teeth are so sharp and digging deep, and the pain is delicious. 

“Please,” you whimper, and she shuts you up by pushing two fingers into your mouth.

“Play.” Her voice is deep, a command in a voice you have only heard when she addresses a legate. Once you begin plucking the strings again she laps at the bite marks, and you struggle to keep your breathing even, to ignore how she makes you feel. Each time you lose focus she bites you again, harder, and you whimper and cry. You want to please her, you do, but you are getting so wet and you want her to punish you too because the pain she inflicts feels just as good. 

“You keep. Messing. Up.” She pushes her free hand higher up between your legs, parting your slick folds and you think that finally she is going to be sweet to you but she pinches your clit, hard, and you sob around her fingers. 

You pause, flexing your fingers, willing the needy tremor out of them, and then begin again. The pressure on your swollen clit eases, turns into gentle caresses. She is not making this easy on you, but would you even want it like that with her? No. You want this difficult edge, this balancing act, and you want to melt in her hands, always. 

In the back of your head a stray thought flits by, _you have always melted in her hands always always forever and ever before time began like this_ , and before you can examine it, it is gone, fragmented and submerged back into your subconscious.

So you play, and your world narrows to only two parts, everything else blacked out: your hands on the strings and every single point of contact between your two bodies. There are so many now: her fingers pressing down on your tongue, keeping your mouth open as saliva trickles down your chin. Her mouth on your bare skin, the shoulder of the loose dress shoved down and dropping lower, one of your breasts spilling out in the cool air. And the worst and loveliest — her fingers on your clit, mirroring your song perfectly, she knows it and she knows you and she is playing you with an expertise you have never known before. 

Her breathing grows more labored in your ear, her teeth skimming across your skin as a reminder to stay the course. Suffering under her hand is so delicious but you will, for her, and for the strange emotion rising in you, a sorrow mingled with joy for a place you barely remember. 

When you hit the final notes she brings you over the edge, a soft and sweet wave that crests gently in you. You let your hands fall down to grasp at her thighs and you grind back against her, panting.

“How good you are to me, pet,” she murmurs, pressing her cheek to yours and it feels wet, as if she has been crying. 

You try to twist your head, to see her eyes and check, but she holds you firmly in place with her fingers hooked in your mouth as her other hand presses two fingers into you, adding a third after thrusting out, and just like that she has you singing again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song I pictured her playing is [Neath Dark Waters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iW7b8Mo_SFU). Again, thank you ladyiceheart for all the great ideas.


	15. 15. ache. solus zos galvus x wol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Empress Solus zos Galvus is back for round two. Have some Emet saying fuck you to gender and using she/her pronouns. 
> 
> cw: mild petplay, dream sex, mild (if you squint?) monsterfucking, aether fuckery, sex toys
> 
> (also my english syntax has been terrible lately i'm sorry insomnia is a bitch)

She wears silk to bed, pressing herself against your back and fitting perfectly. The heat of her body spreads into you, a comfort since you are not used to how cold Garlean nights get yet. You wonder if you ever will be, especially when she likes to have you sleeping in the nude. That, however, you do not mind — her hands _roam_ , tracing and circling, her breath hot and slow against your shoulder.

“The things I wish I could do to you tonight,” she murmurs against your ear, her fingertips ghosting over your mound and you spread your legs hoping for more but she doesn’t indulge you. “I am tired, dear. But I will give you pleasant dreams, if you let me.”

“What do you mean?” But you already know. All you knew of Garleans, their inherent lack of connection to aether, it does not hold true for the empress. She is something else, different and difficult to pin down, but it thrills you in ways you cannot quite explain even to yourself. A mystery for you to unfold, slowly, a treat all to yourself.

She presses a warm, wet kiss to your neck, trailing up your jawline, your cheek, raising herself up so she is above you, her arms caging you in. The anticipation of what she will do to you hangs in the air, making you squeeze your thighs together. Wait, no — that is not anticipation, it is the minute change of aether around you, but far different from what you are used to. You almost missed it, the alteration in pressure making the air feel heavier, so precise.

Suddenly all the magick you command feels crude in comparison, heavy-handed and childish.

“Do you accept my gift?”

“Yes.”

She bows her head down to yours, lips teasing yours lightly before opening, sliding her tongue in and kissing deep. It is as if she is breathing something into you, pushing it into you with her tongue. It stirs something inside you, a familiar and vague memory, and you rise up to kiss her with more fervour, wanting to devour and wanting to be devoured in turn.

“Sleep,” she whispers between kisses, “sleep and dream of me.”

You have experienced oneiromancy before, dreams pressed into you when you struggled with insomnia between deadlines, but this is different.

It is still the rooms of Empress Solus, but the darkness of the night is denser somehow, heavier. Shadows unfurl over your body like smoke, soft and cool against your skin.

“How I have missed being with you like this,” a deep, dark voice croons into your ear — it is hers, unmistakeable, but it carries differently, reverberating through your body with each word. You shudder, reaching a hand out. It is as if the smoky shadows considers you for a moment, and then take on a shape that you recognize: a hand.

“This is such a strange dream,” you say, twisting in bed to try and see, but all you can discern is darkness.

The hand touches your hair, fingers combing through it. “It is better for me to see you like this. Clearer.”

“But I cannot see you.”

“You will soon,” she promises, two hands trailing down your arms as another two cup your face, the fingertips tracing out your eyelids, your cheekbones, the ridge of your nose and when you think you might snap from how good her touch makes you feel, she finally touches your lips.

You suck her thumb into your mouth, and she lets you even as you scrape your teeth against the skin, even as you bite down and hollow your cheeks hard.

Her teeth move against your jawline, trailing down over your neck, and oh, they are different here, sharper. When she sinks them down on the cord in your neck you whimper. Everything she is doing feels so familiar, and eerily enough you know exactly what she will do to you before she does it — or if it is you desiring it and her heeding it.

You decide to test your hypothesis of you being the one in control and she laughs.

“Clever, dearest,” she purrs against your ear even as her teeth are still in your neck. She is all around you, hands on your thighs and breasts and tongues on your nipples. Your skin sings with the touch of aether, pleasure sparking and igniting more nerve endings to join in. She is spreading like a wildfire over you, through you, and you crave _more_.

Shadows flow over you, covering your body and wrapping you up, sliding between your legs and pressing against your slit. You moan and it becomes a mouth, a tongue, fingers, oh, there are so many fingers and they are pushing in between your lips, into your wet core and circling your clit.

“Tsk. Greedy.”

Your mouth is too full to reply, and she flicks a tongue tip against your aching clit, and you think you are coming, your nerves cannot take any more, you are on fire and burning and the heat radiating off you makes the shadows shimmer like a heat mirage and —

You awaken with a shuddering breath, writhing in bed. The morning sun is casting a pale light over the walls, and your skin is covered in goosebumps. Her heavy arm rests draped around your waist, her fingers wrapped around the waist chain. She stirs, slow, her hand moving up to cup your breast and it is only now you feel how hard your heart is beating.

You have to ask. You have to know something, anything. “What are you?”

Her voice is thick with sleep. “I am bound. For now.”

You know what she means — you think you do, at least — but you do not know how to reason around it. A yawning expanse of the unknown opening within you. No, not unknown. Not entirely. That is what makes you wonder the most.

It no longer feels like a mere coincidence that you are the one in her bed. You were chosen. You were seen, and desired, and perhaps… Perhaps even loved, long ago.

She thumbs at your nipple, drawing your attention back to her. “Did the dream excite you?”

“Yes,” you say.

“So if I were to touch you here…” She moves her hand down over your belly, down to the soft hairs between your thighs, lingering just over them. “Would you be wet? Would you be aching for your Empress to drive into you?”

“Yes,” but this time it is far closer to a moan than a word, and she finally, _finally_ touches you, running her fingers along your dripping wet slit and then into you. It does not take much to push you over the edge, you were just upon the precipice in the dream and her morning self is reaping the rewards of what the shadows did to you.

She rolls you over as you tremble in the aftershocks, kissing your neck and breasts, her tongue licking and teeth nipping as her fingers still remain inside you.

The bells sound in the distance, and she pauses, counting them, then sighs. “I will have to continue this train of thought later with you,” she says, and you whine when her fingers leave you, a gush of wetness following onto your thighs.

She reaches over to the nightstand on her side, digging around in a drawer before returning to you, kissing you deep and hard. Something cold presses against your entrance and you yelp.

“My apologies. They will warm up soon.” A ball, heavy and large enough that you feel it, slides into you, followed by another. She presses them further into you, and the sensation has you shuddering.

She ends the kiss, sitting back to inspect your sex, tugging a little at a chain that hangs out from you attached to the spheres inside of you. You moan, still sensitive, and she smirks.

“We have a long day ahead of us, pet. Make sure you keep them inside of you.”

She pulls you up to sitting, and oh, how they shift and move inside of you as she guides you up, your knees still shaking as she picks out a chain to adorn your body with. She attaches a separate chain between your nipple piercings and up around your neck, and then wraps a thin silk dress around you. The skirt wraps over itself, but is cut with just a high enough slit that she can slip her hand in under the fabric panels and tease along your wet and throbbing cunt.

“How long am I meant to wait?” You are already whining and you would be embarrassed but she keeps doing this when all you want is to be used by her.

“Until dinner, perhaps later. There is a banquet tonight. I do hope you will keep yourself until then.”

Already you wonder how long you will be able to last like this before you crawl over to her on all fours in front of everyone and beg for her to pull them out and replace them with her fingers, her toys, her cock, _anything_.

**Author's Note:**

> My twitter is [@celestial_txt](https://twitter.com/celestial_txt) & [my carrd](https://celestial-txt.carrd.co/) is here.


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